


So Fair and Full of Flesh

by ifnot_winter



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Apples, Blood, Blood and Gore, Court of Owls, Crusades, Dark, Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Don't Piss Off the Fairies, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Flirting, Human Sacrifice, Jim Gordon Needs Sleep, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sacrifice, Seelie Court, Slow Burn, Star-crossed, Tragic Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Unseelie Court, Wild Hunt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-10-15
Packaged: 2019-11-18 00:36:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18109739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnot_winter/pseuds/ifnot_winter
Summary: “He'd be biting off far more than he could chew,” a cool, even voice stated, causing Jim to nearly jump out of his skin. He turned abruptly with his hand upon his swordhilt to find a man leaning indolently against one of the pillars behind him, seemingly unarmed and watching the knight with an amused tilt to his lips.Jim fumbled for his words, responding a beat too late as he took the measure of the man--or, well,whateverhe was--before him. “...It wouldn't be the first time.”





	1. AUTUMN is over the long leaves that love us

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Filthycasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filthycasual/gifts).



> This fic started as a trade with FC, who made me some lovely fanart for the upcoming sequel to my other _Gotham_ fic, _The Lantern or the Fire_ and wanted me to write her something in exchange. Her only parameters were that it revolve around Jim/Victor, and be _dark_. This is what my crazy brain came up with (and immediately ended up with far more than the 'short' fic she asked for, because why not work on three multichapters at once, right? *eyes precariously spinning plates warily* At least this one won't end up 50 chapters and counting; I'm thinking 12-15 chapters or so in total, depending on how it all shakes out).
> 
> I own nothing to do with _Gotham_ , I'm just borrowing Jim and Victor (and ensemble) for a nice little faecation and shall return them to their sandbox forthwith (hopefully not _too_ badly mangled from their magical misadventures). Faery lore drawn from all kinds of sources; I'm cherrypicking what I like and putting my own spin on it. This thing is 100% AU, folks, with swords, spells, and full Tudor-inspired wardrobe. _Beware_.
> 
> The title of this work is taken from a line of the Scottish ballad _Tam Lin_.
> 
> Comments are love.

_Away, come away:_  
_Empty your heart of its mortal dream._  
_The winds awaken, the leaves whirl round,_  
_Our cheeks are pale, our hair is unbound,_  
_Our breasts are heaving, our eyes are agleam,_  
_Our arms are waving, our lips are apart;_  
_And if any gaze on our rushing band,_  
_We come between him and the deed of his hand,_  
_We come between him and the hope of his heart._

 _\--The Hosting of the Sidhe_ , W.B. Yeats

\+ + +

 _What we call the beginning is often the end_  
_And to make an end is to make a beginning._  
_The end is where we start from…_

 _\--Little Gidding,_ T. S. Eliot

\+ + +

_The bare hand of the King's Own Darkness, gloved in liquid scarlet, unflinchingly offered up the demanded sacrifice. The wet curve of ripe flesh steamed in the bitter air, the tiniest ghostly echo of life still thrumming like a sparrow within the cage of long-boned fingers._

_The King's hand, deceptively delicate as a birch sapling in winter and heavy with jewels, closed upon the extended prize like a spider tending its snares. He brought it to his lips, scenting as one would with a peach before setting his teeth._

_When he drew back, his lips and chin were writ over with carmine._

\+ + +

I.

AUTUMN is over the long leaves that love us:  
_\--The Falling of the Leaves_ , W. B. Yeats

\+ + +

Ser James Gordon, still green with the newness of his elevation to the investigative division of the City Watch, had already grown quite weary of running the gauntlet of the older, more seasoned--and corrupt--watchmen's resentment at the idealistic young knight the brass had dropped into their grizzled, jaded midst. Having arduously worked his way up through the lower ranks upon his return from the King's Crusade, the veteran watch’s deliberate avalanche of scutwork and backlogged paperwork put him in mind of his days as a ward of the household of his childhood friend and comrade, Eduardo, coming up alongside a crop of other newmade squires under the unforgiving tutelage of the House of Dorrance's master-at-arms.

His partner, Harvey, a gruff old hand of the watch who might have long since retired to open the public house he was always talking about were it not for his taste in rotgut, brothels, and ill-fortuned dice, had taken the measure of Jim upon the rote handclasp of their first meeting and since treated the young man with a mixture of benevolent neglect and fatherly disapproval. He had clapped Jim soundly on the shoulder and escorted him toward the door with his foot when Jim had dared suggest Harvey cut into his drinking time by riding along on a token follow-up with the wife of a recently deceased baker whose death, it seemed, was _not_ the fault of foul play at the hands of conspiring rival breadmakers but the more innocuous indignity of a drunken mishap on a low-walled footbridge, despite his widow's insistence to the contrary.

Jim cursed his own daft whim to shorten his latest fool's errand by crossing the no-man's land of the Narrows almost at once, having turned but thrice in the close, winding streets overchoked with roots and greengold ivies to find himself hopelessly lost.

Despite the fact that the day still reigned, the sunlight was grey and indirect, reflected off of the windworn stone of the tumbledown houses and the yellowing leaves of the trees that grew fearlessly between them. His courser was restive, and Jim feared the roan losing his footing upon the roots and ill-kept cobbles, so he dismounted, leading the stallion determinedly on despite the temperamental beast's nervous whickering and the sense of foreboding steadily growing in his own breast.

The air around them grew closer, the daylight yielding to a queer sort of twilight in spite of the early hour. Just as the usually dauntless knight was considering turning back, he caught a glimpse of light bobbing up ahead, rounding a corner before he could place whether the source of it was torch or lantern, or call out to ask for aid. He stepped up his pace in pursuit, the buildings, the very trees themselves seeming to lean in around them as they passed. Despite the pervasive, desolate chill, Jim could not but feel as though the eaves and branches above them were full of unseen eyes, the pricking weight of many stares needling him between his shoulderblades.

Try as he might, he could not seem to come to pace with the light, which had grown ever more distant, only to vanish entirely when he passed through a broad, intricately carved archway that might once have been a gate of some kind, still imbued with grandeur though yearworn and greened over with tangled vines and lichen.

There was a distant titter of laughter, the knight's ears straining toward it even as the hand not upon his mount's reins strayed inadvertently toward his swordhilt, though it was unlikely that showing steel in the supposed dominion of the Folk would be looked upon kindly.

Moving through the gateway and into the curiously open space beyond, Jim realized the roan's hooves no longer sounded upon stone. The ground was carpeted with moss, the moist turf giving lushly beneath his booted steps as he took in his surroundings.

Grown over as it was, it took him a moment to place that he was standing in what once was a church before the forest had reclaimed it. The roof was missing almost in its entirety, slim, silver-skinned trees having grown alongside high gothic arches and windows that had long since lost the wealth of their richly-colored glass. The pews had been cleared away to create an open, star-vaulted hall that still felt somehow sacred, despite its likely consecration to gods and revels both wilder and older than anything in the realm of a humble soldier's small understanding.

He had heard tales, and seen from afar the faery King and Queen’s emissaries to the Throne and the Court of Owls, but he had dismissed much of it out of hand as old wives’ superstitions and the gibberings of cowardice. And yet, standing in the midst of such unworldly decay and splendor, the very air tasting older than the pillars of the world, Jim thought perhaps he could _believe_.

+

Dimly, Jim could hear the song of water.

The sound drew him deeper into the church, past the abandoned cups of past revels and scraps of sacred boughs once twined into garlands. The mossy turf swallowed the sound of his boots and his stallion's steelshod hooves where once they would have rung upon stone, the echo of their breath hanging deafeningly upon the greylit air.

He resisted the urge to cross himself at the eerie thrill playing fingers along his spine as he stepped beneath an peaked, ornate arch and across the threshold of what once must have been a doorway, judging by the orphaned hinges, out into a low-vaulted corridor that opened off of the left side of the transept opposite the auxiliary altar. Despite his misgivings, the silvery sound was impossibly compelling, urging him onward with his recalcitrant mount's reins still clutched in an overtight grasp.

Minding the pitfalls of displaced stones and twisted roots that looped incongruously through the dense carpet of moss like the careless stitches of an idle maid, Jim found the water's song abruptly intensified as he rounded a corner to be faced with the intricate open stonework of a tidy double row of overlapping gothic arches supported by slim, vine-choked columns. Beyond them he glimpsed the nearest edge of a spacious interior courtyard, intermittently shaded by the arms of oak, beech, and alder trees. The knight followed the nearest line of arches until they opened out into what must once have been a neatly paved footpath, directly facing a pale stone fountain that played as surely as it had in the days of the monks that must once have made their home there.

At the far side of what had formerly been the abbey's courtyard, a glossy black destrier to put even the finest specimens of the King's stables to shame bent the graceful arch of her neck to crop the dense carpet of grass and small blue flowers that had long since overwhelmed the paving stones and orderly, tended beds of herbs that must once have bordered flagstones trodden smooth by countless years of sandaled feet, going about their endless days of toil and heavenly contemplation.

Leaning against a pillar beside the grazing destrier's neatly piled tack was a longsword, and hunting knives with hilts of blackened bone, as well as an unstrung bow and black-fletched arrows, all of superior make yet curiously unadorned; the tools of a soldier, rather than the fripperies of a noble.

Jim's stallion whickered inquisitively, earlier flightiness seemingly forgotten as the big brute made eyes at the powerful, battle-bred mare contentedly nosing the greenery near the fountain, her dark ears flicking briefly at the sound but to all intents and purposes answering the roan’s greeting with studied disinterest.

“He'd be biting off far more than he could chew,” a cool, even voice stated, causing Jim to nearly jump out of his skin. He turned abruptly with his hand upon his swordhilt to find a man leaning indolently against one of the pillars behind him, seemingly unarmed and watching the knight with an amused tilt to his lips.

Jim fumbled for his words, responding a beat too late as he took the measure of the man--or, well, _whatever_ he was--before him. “...It wouldn't be the first time.”


	2. If the light were good I could see everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is true, then, that mortals are fools, to risk life and soul for something of so little consequence as a shorter road,” the stranger derided lightly, pale mouth curling into a challenging smirk. “And does this fool have a name, I wonder, or shall I choose one to my liking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with the apple was among the first nebulous scribbles that spawned this piece. I admit to having a bit of an obsession with apple lore of all kinds, and the tale of Persephone has always been dear to my heart. It's quite fun to tap into that, even a little.
> 
> For FC, who loves first meetings. x
> 
> Comments are <3.

II.

If the light were good I could see everything:  
\-- _Diary [Gathering Flowers], Eating in the Underworld_ , Rachel Zucker

+

Even slouched against the pillar the stranger was tall, and leanly built, but with a set to his deceptively easy posture that suggested he knew how to handle himself, with or without a blade obviously to hand.

His face was too young for the weight of his dark eyes, curiously smooth as a babe's though his features were those of a man, and striking for all of their sharpness. Though his cloth was fine, it was uncommonly austere, not unlike that of a ranking steward or cleric. It bore no device upon the vast darkness of leather and wool; a dense, lustreless black that seemed to devour the light around it, and made the luminous paleness of his skin all the more shocking for the contrast.

His deep gaze was possessed of the edged keenness of a blade, not unlike the gleaming, unworldly gazes of the wolves, thin and restless, that tirelessly roamed the ‘tween and ‘twixt places of the city, and filled the violet skies above the ancient trees rooted amid the uneven cobbles and peaked, narrow eaves of the crumbling stone houses of the Narrows, where whisper held that Air and Darkness reigned and the Court of Light held no sway, with their chill, unearthly song.

In the space of a blink, the man had straightened; in another, he loomed suddenly over Jim, staring down at him with dark curiosity. “What brings you hence, mortal?” The lightness was gone from his expression, leaving an intensity to his aspect that evoked in Jim the base, animal urge to flee. “Come to beg a boon? Steal a treasure?” His head tilted, fell voice coiling around Jim like an unholy shade, or a serpent. “Shall I spin gold from straw for you? Bring low your enemies? Turn the heart of a fickle maid from scorn to ardour, that you may take her to bed, or to wife?”

Distantly the knight felt a tension in the reins as his stallion stepped warily back, pulling the well-oiled leather taut against his grip. “No,” he managed, finding his voice, wilfully quelling the fear in his heart. “I am neither beggar nor thief, and ask nothing of you.” He lifted his chin, squaring his gaze with the stranger's and adding, ruefully, “Save perhaps that you point me toward Newtown, as I find myself quite lost.”

“Lost.” The amusement returned to those dark eyes, and Jim felt suddenly able to draw a much-needed breath. “Is that so.”

“It is,” Jim answered, chagrined to admit it. “I thought to take a shortcut, but…”

“It is true, then, that mortals are fools, to risk life and soul for something of so little consequence as a shorter road,” the stranger derided lightly, pale mouth curling into a challenging smirk. “And does this fool have a name, I wonder, or shall I choose one to my liking?”

“James,” the knight retorted shortly, bristling as the answer was seemingly drawn from his tongue, whether he willed it or no. “Gordon.”

“ _James Gordon_.” It felt vaguely obscene, hearing his name rolled about in that mocking mouth, testing the mettle of its limits as one might savour a costly vintage.

“Who are you?” Jim demanded, discomfiture eroding his caution. He winced inwardly, instantly regretting the harshness of his tone; from what little he remembered of the tales his Nan used to tell him, the denizens of Faerie were notoriously hot-tempered and quick to offend.

He was met by a level, measuring gaze, still tinged with that maddening amusement. “A humble servant of my King.”

The knight frowned at the non-answer, and the notion of any with so self-possessed a bearing being termed _humble_. “The King of the _Faeries_ ,” he pursued, not without a hint of incredulity.

“My Sovereign and Dreadlord, the Master of Air and Darkness; yes.”

“Then...you are one of the, ah, ‘Fair Folk’?” Jim eyed him dubiously.

The amusement deepened, sharpening around the edges like steel beneath a whetstone's oiled caress. “Why; do you think me _fair_ , James Gordon?”

Jim felt suddenly flushed beneath the linen collar of his shirt, absurdly glad his blue and grey Watch livery was on the whole sober and functional, despite the Throne's ornate gold and black badge stitched upon the breast of his doublet or the smoky jewel clutched in the talons of the stylized owl of the Court's device pinning his blue wool cloak at the shoulder, and did not require him to wear the starched, fanciful ruff that had recently come into courtly fashion.

“I don't know,” Jim found himself answering, despite the reflexive and vehement rebuttal hovering upon his lips.

Cheeks heating at the unexpected laughter provoked by his response and the startling alchemy it wrought upon sharp, pale features, Jim wondered if perhaps the truth were not a more murky and terrifying _yes_.

+

The flesh of the apple gave crisply, flooding his tongue with the tart, clear lifeblood of encroaching autumn.

He had been invited to sit, his mount grazing contentedly nearby at the limit of the reins still loosely caught within Jim's grasp, despite knowing the beast would not stray far if permitted to wander; as though to relinquish this last anchor to the safe and familiar would be to lose himself entirely.

His blue eyes studied the queer, compelling man who sat across from him, back turned to the smooth, grey-gilt skin of the tree beneath which the man's saddle, pack, and armaments rested, long limbs arranged with such spare, precise elegance. A man-- _faery_ , a fell, sly voice in his mind corrected--about whom Jim still knew not even so much as a name despite being unable to resist voicing the occasional probing question that was, if not summarily dismissed, deflected, or evaded, then skillfully turned upon him and, much to the knight's shame at the uncommon looseness of his tongue, promptly answered.

Their fingertips caught briefly as Jim passed the apple back, feeling curiously guilty that the man had not produced another for himself. Jim watched the apple turn within white hands, the dark-jewelled rings upon slim fingers catching the light as those eyes did. The faery's gaze lit with edged curiosity as he at last brought the apple to the pale curve of his mouth and set his teeth directly over the mark that Jim's own had left.

Jim felt a thrill of foreboding, wondering at what had compelled him to accept the proffered fruit in the first place, its red, unblemished skin gleaming darkly in the failing daylight.

His thoughts turned to the fate of the fabled Queen of the Underworld, the tartness of the apple not unlike the sweetbitter brightness of the ruby, manyseeded hearts of pomegranates.

 


	3. They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He actually professed fealty to the Master of Air and-- _Christ_ , Jim, that’s a member of the Dark Host.” At Jim's blank look, he flat-out _stared_. “The _Unseelie Court_. They do nothing _of the good of their hearts_ ; where have you been living, under a rock?”
> 
> “A desert, actually,” Jim countered, trying and failing to _not_ take offense at his partner's incredulous, patronizing tone. “Hunting Saracens.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's an incredibly weird challenge, trying to find the right genre-appropriate voice for someone like Harvey. Fun, but weird.
> 
> Jim is such a clueless puppy. <3 him.
> 
> Already working on the next installment, but I am hellbent for leather on getting the next part of my other, much larger _Gotham_ fic up first, and my Zsasz-muse is being mulish and recalcitrant about the thumbscrews I keep sticking to him, so it may be a minute.
> 
> Comments are like faerie apples, and shall be buffed to a shine and subsequently devoured.

III.

  
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die.  
I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.  
_\--The Merry Wives of Windsor,_ William Shakespeare

+

“Where in the _Hell_ have you _been_ , Jim?!” Harvey demanded, overturning his stool as he abruptly stood from his usual table at _The Green Garland_ , staring at Jim as though he were bearing witness to a ghost.

Jim frowned; he wasn't _that_ late. “You knew I had to go talk to the widow--”

“Wait, the _baker_ 's widow? That was _days_ ago.”

... _What?_

He gave Harvey a dubious look, eyeing the collection of empties cluttering the scarred and stained tabletop. Surely Harvey hadn't managed _that_ many in the few hours he'd been gone... “What are you talking about? I've only been gone a few--”

“-- _days_ , Jim,” Harvey cut in wildly, “Seven days! Sweet Mary, Mother of--I _thought_ I was going to be fishing your corpse out of the canal; that you’d...fallen afoul of cutpurses, or picked the wrong damsel to play knight errant to...” He took a heavy draught from his pint, draining it and bringing the empty tankard down heavily upon the table beside the others. “Jesus, lad, I'm getting too damned old for this.” He loosely signaled the long-suffering tavern keep for another. “ _You're_ buying the next round, for the silver hairs you've earned me, and telling me _everything_.”

+

_“I wouldn't,” the faery cautioned mildly, when Jim went to dip a hand in the seemingly clear waters of the fountain, suddenly parched. “Lest you wish to speak but Truth, whether you will it or no, for ever and always.”_

_Jim drew his hand abruptly back, eying the waters with curiosity and wariness both. “...Is there power also in its proximity? And does it affect mortal and faery differently? Is that why I keep answering your questions, while_ you _answer_ none _of mine?”_

_A smooth brow raised, the faery's lips pursing consideringly at the knight’s inaccurate but well-reasoned postulation. “You’re curiously astute. For a mortal.” His mouth curled in a brief, inscrutable smile before he called his mount to him with a low, avian whistle._

_“Should I take that as compliment, or insult?” Jim returned tartly, watching as the mare's tack, all of finely tooled black leather and silver, was made fast by sure, swift hands, embellishments winking dimly against her ravensleek coat in the darkening twilight._

_“Take it as you will.” The faery secured his weapons and swung lightly into the saddle, watching as the knight did the same, with slightly less grace but no less surety. “But_ no _. To_ answer _your question,” he replied, an impish gleam in his eyes. “On both counts.”_

Try again _, the mocking curl at the edge of his mouth suggested, as he urged his mount toward the far side of the courtyard, toward an ominously dense copse of trees and a telltale circle of speckle-capped toadstools beneath the twined branches of a hawthorn and elder tree that bent toward one another across the span of the ring like grasping, eternally divided lovers._

_Jim eyed the fairy circle dubiously, drawing his mount up short as the stallion danced sideways, picking up on the knight's recalcitrance._

_The faery slanted him a glance full of challenge. “Come along, or remain lost, James Gordon. But either way,_ decide _.”_

My patience is neither legendary nor limitless _, his dark eyes said, lips still set in that sharp, mocking smile as the destrier stepped lightly across the line of toadstools and onto one of the many paths which like all ‘tween and ‘twixt places led eventually to the instersection of the King’s Way and Queen's Road. “I'll even grant you another question. And an_ answer _.”_

_The line of Jim's jaw hardened, blue gaze answering the unspoken challenge in kind as he put up his hesitance, set his spurs to his courser's sides, and determinedly followed._

+

“He actually _professed fealty_ to the Master of Air and-- _Christ_ , Jim, that’s a member of the Dark Host.” At Jim's blank look, he flat-out _stared_. “The _Unseelie Court_. They do nothing _of the good of their hearts_ ; where have you been living, under a rock?”

“A desert, actually,” Jim countered, trying and failing to _not_ take offense at his partner's incredulous, patronizing tone. “Hunting Saracens.”

Harvey abruptly deflated, bluster yielding to the genuine worry beneath it. “Sweet _Jesus_ , lad, pick up a--a _book_ or something. Times are precarious enough since the Accord without you putting your foot in it, dallying around with some faery bastard angling for Lord knows what.”

“I wasn't _dallying_ ,” Jim protested mulishly. “I got _lost_. He offered me an apple, then showed me the way out of the Narrows.”

“ _Hold_ the procession--he offered you _food_ , and you _took_ it?”

“It was just an apple,” Jim ground out, feeling acutely defensive even though he was sure he had done nothing to warrant the sudden, low flush of shame he felt at Harvey's shocked and horrified stare. “I took _one_ bite.”

Admittedly, he might have taken more had it been on offer, but the destrier had promptly taken an interest, nosing along her master's arm inquisitively before shamelessly claiming the remains of the apple from his grasp, breaking the strange tension of the moment as she noisily devoured her prize.

“Mortals can become trapped or enthralled just from eating the food from _under the hill_ , Jim!” Harvey shrilled, pulling the knight back to the present. The addendum, _you idiot_ , remained silent, but was heavily implied.

 _Oh_. “I thought that was just fishwife's gossip, or a tale to frighten unruly children.”

“Even the most wholecloth yarn can hold a kernel of _truth_ at its heart, Jim. Just-- _mind_ yourself.”

Touched by the show of concern, Jim nodded, swallowing resolutely against the lingering, phantom tart-sweetness of apples.


	4. How like a WINTER hath my absence been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “ _Overslept_? Christ crucified, lad, you were meant to be here _four bells_ ago,” the veteran of the Watch groused lowly, only to cut short his tirade as the captain's sharp stare widened to include him as well as Jim in its scope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, for FC, who I hope is as happy with this installment as she was with the previous ones. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read and commented on this; I know it is pretty out there for _Gotham_ fandom.
> 
> The next section is in the works, and should be up in the next few days, barring unforeseen disasters great or small. *fingers crossed*
> 
> Comments are love.

_Tarry thou yet, late lingerer in the twilight’s glory:_  
_Gay are the hills with song: earth’s faery children leave_  
_More dim abodes to roam the primrose-hearted eve,_  
_Opening their glimmering lips to breathe some wondrous story._  
_Hush, not a whisper! Let your heart alone go dreaming._  
_Dream unto dream may pass: deep in the heart alone_  
_Murmurs the Mighty One his solemn undertone._

 _\--A Call of the Sidhe_ , A.E.

\+ + +

IV.

How like a WINTER hath my absence been:  
 _\--Sonnet 97_ , William Shakespeare

\+ + +

Jim woke in a sweat, shamed by his body's fevered response as he fought to recall the wisps of his dream and found himself dogged by the memory of too-pale skin and dark, mocking eyes.

The angle of the sunlight slanting through the window of his modest garret told him he was _late_ , the icy realization dousing the remainder of his dreamlike fervour as he remembered what day it was, and tumbled out of bed in his haste to make ready.

T’was the day before Midwinter's Eve, when delegations from the Faerie Courts of Dark and Light would arrive to attend upon the Throne and Court of Owls and celebrate the joining of the old world and new. It was the first occasion since the sealing of the great Accord between the mortal and immortal rulers that faery King or Queen had deigned to attend any mortal function, and the acceptance of such an invitation from both, for such a momentous occasion as Christmastide and the Faeries' own holy solstice, was seen as a great triumph of diplomacy from all sides.

The months since Jim's fateful sojourn in the Narrows had worn long upon him, yet at once seemed to pass in a tidy wink; full of rote crime and high-piled busywork, which he dutifully filed as was his lot and so steadily grew in his comrades’ grudging esteem and the eyes of his superiors. And yet his nights remained short of sleep and haunted, if not by remembered eyes and faery lights, then by the ghosts of horrors witnessed abroad in the bitter, red-drenched sands of holy places.

Jim hastily shed his nightclothes and bathed his face in the washbasin the landlord's daughter had refilled as was custom, grimacing as the bitter shock of the icy liquid drove any lingering tendrils of sleep far from reach. He donned his Watch uniform in record time, taming his thankfully short hair into some semblance of respectability before reaching for his cloak and sword and making a mad dash down the steps toward the stables.

Jim's roan glanced up from the remains of the morning's repast to fix the knight with an unimpressed stare before dropping his head again.  He blatantly ignored the quick, cursory brushdown he received, being far more interested in nosing at the shreds of hay littering the ground, driven by the eternal quest for just one more stray, undiscovered oat. That was, until the pad and saddle lit upon his back, at which point the stallion made his sentiments toward _work_ plain by neatly sidling toward Jim and stepping squarely on the man's foot, to the familiar litany of oaths and epithets that customarily underscored this portion of their daily routine.

Jim shoved the ill-tempered charger bodily over, freeing his foot and muttering well-worn threats of ‘ _retirement_ ’ that the old brute unsurprisingly ignored, hollow as they both knew them to be. Evading the half-hearted threat of teeth as he cinched the saddle girth, Jim managed not to lose any fingers as he slipped the bit into the roan's mouth and led the beast out into the yard to mount up, thankfully without further incident.

He heard the distant peal of midmorning bells, and cursed inwardly, putting his spurs to his mount's sides and setting a brisk trot that narrowly missed overturning the porter, arms laden with sacks of grain bound for the kitchens.

“Apologies!” he called over his shoulder to the chorus of curses, banking a hard right into the street and cutting around a merchant whose coarse-boned two-in-hand strained against the weight of their wagonload of goods bound for market, his mount's steel-shod hooves resounding upon the cobblestones as he dodged the morning traffic.

 _Of all the days to oversleep_...

+

_“Have you no question for me, then?” The faery asked, when they had rounded a twist in the path and suddenly found themselves at a less-tended edge of the Royal Botanical Gardens, betwixt the borders of Otisburgh and Newtown._

_Jim considered carefully, though there was one thing above all he was burning to ask. “Your name,” he said at last, “what is it?”_

_It was strange, how the faery's face could seem surprised and pleased, yet unimpressed all at once, as though faulting Jim's squandering of so limitless a boon upon so small a trifle. His brow furrowed, clearly considering his answer._

_“You promised me the_ truth _,” Jim accused, when it seemed the faery might dissemble, or keep his silence._

 _“I promised an_ answer _,” the faery countered, clearly tempted to offer something outrageous simply for the thrill of baiting the mortal's temper. His eyes narrowed, expression once again inscrutable._

_At last, he relented, holding Jim captive with the weight of his gaze even as he circled his restive mount back toward the wildest edge of the wooded copse and the pale ring marking the entrance to the faery path, answering evenly, “Victor.”_

+

“Where in the Seven Hells have ye _been_?” Harvey hissed under his breath as Jim belatedly fell into line with him, the commissioner of the Watch still meandering through the tail-end of an overlong speech about the storied day to come.

“Overslept, apologies,” Jim replied, keeping his eyes forward as the captain's gaze zeroed in on him, narrowing in an all too familiar manner.

“ _Overslept_? Christ crucified, lad, you were meant to be here _four bells_ ago,” the veteran of the Watch groused lowly, only to cut short his tirade as the captain's sharp stare widened to include him as well as Jim in its scope.

When the captain's attention was finally drawn by the interruption of a page in Tower livery, Jim fixed his partner with his best approximation of an appropriately chastened look, wearing thin his apology until Harvey rolled his eyes and kindly told him to bugger off.

+

“Oswald,” the Queen of Light and Flame greeted with airy irony, pushing back the hood of her cloak of embroidered ivory velvet lined with cloth-of-gold to fix her counterpart with a smile sweet as a sugared knife's blade. Her white palfrey fell into pace with his fine-boned grey, the glittering throng of their respective retinues unfurling like mirrored banners of light and shadow behind them.

“Barbara,” the King of Air and Darkness countered with edged politeness, cutting her a tart glance over the high collar of his shining mantle of raven's feathers.

The rulers of the respective courts of Faerie made barbed small talk as their grand procession moved through the streets toward the Citadel, the song of countless silver bells and unearthly voices lifted in hymn to the King's Solstice hanging upon the brittle midwinter air like will-o'-the-wisps in their printless wake. They passed through the high white arches of the East Gate, the entrance to the Citadel nearest Oldtown, which was under the Seelie Court's influence and held one of the formal gates to the Queen's Road, as the Narrows did for the King's Way.

It had begun to snow, fat flakes drifting down from the dimming skies to feather upon the freshly-swept cobbles and mantle the eaves of upscale shops and palatial townhouses. The wind was crisp, nipping all the brighter at cheeks and noses with the blue curtainfall of the twilight.

As they neared the Tower and the adjacent seat of the parliament that styled themselves the Court of Owls, the edges of the streets thickened with mortal spectators who gawked in wonder and fear at the rulers of the Winter and Summer kingdoms and their combined cortège.

They wended their way through the gates of the Tower, the seat of power and home to Gotham's ruling family, the House of Wayne, whose dynasty had held the Throne for the past several centuries after overthrowing a rival house who had since fallen out of all but the longest memory. The procession came to a halt in the great courtyard, where countless royal attendants, nobles, courtiers, and assorted hangers-on awaited the grand party's much-anticipated arrival.

The King and Queen dismounted, leaving their respective mounts to the hands of the mortal attendants that gaped at the dazzling throng with ill-concealed awe.

“Shall we?” Barbara queried, waiting upon her counterpart's uneven gait at the top of the guard-lined marble steps, the old injury the fruits of his unsuccessful first coup against his adoptive mother, the reigning ruler of the Sluagh, before squaring his designs upon the larger prize of the Unseelie throne.

Oswald gave the Queen a smile as sweetbitter as poisoned mead and extended a hand that hers lit lightly atop of in the courtly fashion, the pair masking their discomfiture at the presence of so much iron and presenting a united front as they made their entrance to the accompaniment of heraldic proclamation and brassy mortal fanfare.


	5. And wild for to hold, though I seem tame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“That ain't no fancy bauble he's wearing, that's the_ King's jewel _, Jim,” Harvey hissed. “_ Way _above our paygrade; let the Tower guards handle it.”_
> 
> _“But--” Jim protested mulishly, only to be cut off by his partner's wild-eyed insistence._
> 
>  _“That there's the_ King's Darkness _, in the_ flesh, Jim _, and you are_ not _getting a bee in your bonnet about him, you hear me?_ Noli mi tangere _; I_ mean _it. Not this time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a little trouble with sorting out the sequencing on this part, but...hopefully it scans. I kept changing how I intercut the flashbacks and am not 100% on it still, but I've spent far too much time fussing, so here it is.
> 
> For FC, as always. Hope it's up to snuff. <3
> 
> Comments are like offerings to the faeries; much appreciated.

V.

And wild for to hold, though I seem tame  
\-- _Whoso List to Hunt, I Know Where is an Hind_ , Sir Thomas Wyatt

\+ + +

The Midwinter's Eve feast was in full swing. The Tower had been gaily bedecked for the season, the King's Hall lit with the flames of many candles and garlanded with freshly cut swags of evergreen and winter berries that bit the goldlit air with their crisp perfume.

Jim stood at his post on the fringes of the festivities and manfully resisted the urge to scratch at the stiffened confines of the starched ruff that had been added to the fashionably ‘updated’ dress uniforms of those unfortunate members of the Watch who had drawn the short straw, and been granted the privilege of watching the court and their guests devolve into increasingly unrestrained revelry as the evening progressed. The hall buzzed like a hive of bees in silk and velvet, bestirred with gossip at the unconventional scene of the faery King's Own bursting in upon the court with a wounded prisoner in tow and interrupting the expected formalities with unexpected intrigue.

The knight had been unable to entirely suppress his indrawn breath as the faery procession entered the King's Hall to the airy silver fanfare of strange trumpets, awestruck despite himself by the full effect of the visiting rulers and their retinue's inhuman beauty.

+

_The falling snow had cast a silver hush over the city, muffling all sound save the ringing of bells and ageless voices fair and fell, suspended upon the blue, breathclouded air._

_Jim had found himself seeking the faery's face in every courtier that passed, standing at attention in his Watch livery just outside the Tower gates, he and his brethren having been tasked with preventing the citizens lining the streets from interfering with the grand procession--and the reverse, if necessary._

_His ears still rang faintly with the echoes of the dressing-down he had received when the commissioner had finally wound down and dismissed them to their duties. The captain had all but taken him by the ear like an errant child when she drew him aside to give the knight an earful about the lackadaisical attitude evinced by his gross lack of punctuality, on a day that was sure not to go smoothly even if the Watch executed their duties to the letter. Chagrined, Jim had borne it with uncharacteristic lack of complaint; the captain was generally an even-handed woman who had given him a fairer shake than most, and he could see the tells of the immense pressure she was under behind the thinworn mask of her composure._

_Jim had watched the faery Queen and King pass with a flicker of interest, their sharp, everyoung faces possessed of strange and singular beauty that drew mortal fascination as open flame did the dozy circling of singe-wingèd moths, their sumptuous raiment dazzling the eye with costly ornamentation and gems beyond counting that glimmered like low-burning embers beneath the flickering golden gaze of the streetlamps. They were flanked by a contingent of cloaked guards in stark white or black livery, the white bearing jeweled badges of gold-and-azure, the black bearing their counterparts in silver-and-violet, with pennons bearing the devices of the houses royal upon fields of_ or _and_ argent _drifting upon the bladed air like spun gossamer behind the standard-bearers that followed._

 _The knight's eagerness waned as the procession thinned from the riot of colour and splendid trappings of richly-appointed faery nobles that followed to the expected train of liveried attendants, court followers, and carts laden with the ostentatious largesse that accompanied any courtly outing without sight of his quarry, knowing the quality of horse and armaments alone spoke to high station without even taking into account the many rings that had weighed the faery's--_ Victor's _\--white hands, heavy with jewels that had caught and held the thinning twilight as he had brought the shared apple to his mouth._

+

The Seelie Queen was as slight as thistledown and looked as easily carried away, though beneath that ethereal delicacy her bearing was as unyielding as tempered steel and her gaze shone with unearthly light, burning blue as jewels in the pale, ageless oval of her face. Her hair was upbound in elaborate rose-gold coils cleverly interwoven with chains of pale stones, intricate coiffure crowned by a halo of golden spikes dazzlingly set with pearl and sapphire. A gown of ivory samite was cut provocatively low over high, white breasts, the neckline heavy with ouches of faceted moonstone and clustered pearl. Her trailing sleeves had a lining of blue silk cunningly stitched with gold in an intricate pattern of summer leaves, matching the forepanel of her voluminous skirts.

The Queen's Own followed close on her mistress's left, a ferocious warrioress in white leather with sleek dark hair pulled up high on her head. Her jewel of office gleamed on a heavy chain around her neck, the massive sapphire blazing brightly against the flawless cafe-au-lait of her skin where it settled between the ripe curves of her breasts, just above the line of her corset. She had dark, feral eyes and a coiled bullwhip hanging beside the curved blade sheathed at her hip, and wore leather breeches tucked into high boots in place of the skirts expected of a lady.

A step behind on the right and similarly attired, a wiry adolescent human girl-child with unruly chestnut ringlets and painted eyes kept pace with her mentor, assessing the surrounding environs with a cutting-keen gaze. Several of her courtiers followed, attired as brightly as a nosegay of spring and summer flowers.

The courtly chatter lowered at the faery Queen's arrival, then sank to an abrupt hush as the Unseelie King entered separately with his own cortège.

+

_Jim had all but resigned himself to an evening spent bearing silent witness to the revels of his betters, when a commotion at the end of the line caught his attention. A solitary rider, cloaked and hooded in the fashion of the Unseelie Kingsguard, came up along the narrow gap between the edge of the baggage train and the outermost bystanders at a brisk trot, mounted upon a black warhorse and drawing something behind that resolved into the shape of an unfortunate wretch with a black-fletched arrow protruding from the back of one shoulder and hands painfully bound with rope, the far end of which had been secured over the pommel of the rider's saddle. The bound man's garments were sodden with sweat and black with his own blood around the arrow-shaft, chest heaving as he jogged erratically in the horse's wake in an effort to spare being dragged mercilessly upon the cobbles. His face swelled with new-rising bruises, eyes rolling with fear as a pack of sleek, close-coated hounds circled and snapped at his heels, driving him onward._

_As the rider drew closer, Jim spied the chillingly familiar, verboten shape of a Genoese crossbow hooked over the pommel alongside the tidily knotted rope, though the polished recurve of a strung bow glimpsed in a gloved hand amid the shifting folds of the rider's heavy black cloak suggested that the crossbow belonged not to him, but to the prisoner being drawn behind._

_A massive brooch secured the rider's cloak at the shoulder, circled with a setting of silver feathers that gleamed like intricately worked blades, the central jewel seemingly lit from within with the violet-blue flame of the gloaming. It was the only light about him, the voluminous hood of the cloak drawn low, the entirety of his cloth like a starless night that drew illumination from the torches only to negate it._

_Instinct had Jim stepping forward with a hand upon his swordhilt, drawn after along with the excited swell of the crowd jostling for better vantage of the Tower courtyard, but Harvey's sudden grip on his arm brought him up short. “That ain't no fancy bauble he's wearing, that's the_ King's jewel _, Jim,” Harvey hissed. “_ Way _above our paygrade; let the Tower guards handle it.”_

_“But--” Jim protested mulishly, only to be cut off by his partner's wild-eyed insistence._

_“That there's the_ King's Darkness _, in the_ flesh _,_ Jim _, and you are_ not _getting a bee in your bonnet about him, you hear me?_ Noli mi tangere _; I_ mean _it. Not this time.”_

_Watching the black-liveried Tower guard step forward to meet the rider, Jim briefly debated the merits of freeing himself from his partner's visegrip and stepping forward anyway as the dark rider planted a booted foot that sent the bound man sprawling upon the cobbles, shrieking with pain as the impact jarred his injuries._

_He distantly felt his hand fall slackly from his swordhilt as the rider swung gracefully from the saddle, pushing back the hood to reveal a pale, striking face that was all too familiar, pale mouth set in a mocking curve that had dogged the heels of his dreams._

+

The faery King's doublet and breeches were of darkest pewter silk brocade patterned with birch grey and violet. A chain of the changeable violet-blue jewels he favoured hung upon his breast, and his violet surcoat was trimmed with sable, brightly contrasting the green fire of his eyes and the whiteness of his skin, as colourless as winter marble. Within the feathery tempest of his dark hair rested a crown of silver-gilt ravenskulls and pale spikes of crystal.

Close upon the King's heels, his Darkness followed, strikingly austere in his leather jerkin and velvet doublet, a short cape of finely woven wool fastened over one shoulder, opposite the longsword on his hip. The King's jewel in its feathered setting of silver was bright upon his breast, glimmering against the unrelieved black of his attire like the flame of a knife in the dark.

A pair of hard-eyed women flanked him, clad in the black leather livery of the Kingsguard, one with close-shorn hair and skin like polished mahogany, the other with a complexion as pure as the milk in the small dishes left in offering by the commonfolk and hair vibrant as flame.

Jim's gaze was drawn immediately to Victor, breath catching in his chest as the faery passed nearest the section of wall the knight was holding up, a forest of whispers springing up doubly-thick in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Noli mi tangere_ is a reference to a line from a poem by Sir Thomas Wyatt, possibly referencing Anne Boleyn: "Noli mi tangere (touch me not), for Caesar's I am."


	6. You moonshine revellers, and shades of night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim felt his colour rise, cheeks flaming with heat as long, cool fingers insinuated themselves beside his own and deftly worked the fastenings of the ruff, freeing him from the confines of starched lace as mocking dark eyes caught and held his own.
> 
> “How came you by such a scar?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much ado, the 'longed-for moment' (not _that_ sort of moment; for shame, people). 
> 
> I tacked on a little extra that might easily have been saved for the next installment, as an apology for the wait. Hopefully the next bit will come a little quicker, but no promises; life has been _all_ of the crazy of late.
> 
> For FC, who has been so patient about my slow-going on this. <3
> 
> Comments are love, darlings.

VI.

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,  
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night,  
 _\--The Merry Wives of Windsor_ , William Shakespeare

\+ + +

The feast had worn on into the fastness of the longest night, the courtiers considerably loosened in tongue and inhibition by the contents of the great casks of feywine the Unseelie King had generously gifted.

The Hall yet abounded with hearsay about the earlier excitement, amid wild speculations on the visiting royals and their retinue, and a smattering of more standard court gossip, the knight having strained his ears at any mention of the King's Darkness in an effort to piece together the fullness of the day's intrigue.

The faery in question broke from lengthy exchange with a strikingly beautiful redheaded Unseelie woman in green-gold samite at the interruption of one of his lieutenants, pausing as he caught the cast line of Jim's stare upon him. His smile was inscrutable behind his goblet, the gems in his rings gleaming with captive light as he set the blade's edge of his gaze upon Jim in turn, pinning the knight briefly in place across the dazzling chaos of the King's Hall.

When Victor turned away, Jim felt at once as though he were suddenly freed to draw an unfettered breath, and inexplicably bereft.

+

_“What is this I hear of your servant making a prisoner of one of my citizens?” King Thomas, attired in sober dark velvet with an ermine-trimmed surcoat and the jewels of his station, asked evenly as he stood upon the dais before the throne, having risen to greet his guests. He was a striking man in his prime, despite the cares writ in the lines of his face and threading his temples with silver, and the solemnity weighing his gaze._

_Behind him, his pretty wife, begowned festively in green silk-velvet trimmed with pearl and silver, a crown of winter berries upon her upbound beaten-gold hair and a collar of pearls circling her throat. By her side stood a boy of ten summers in russet velvet; a scaled-down chain of office with the device of House Wayne upon its seal weighed his slim shoulders and broadcast his position as the heir-apparent, his dark eyes marking the proceedings with a grave watchfulness beyond his years._

_“This_ citizen _you claim for your own saw fit to make attempt on the life of my King.”  The King's Own Darkness stepped forth to cast the contentious crossbow and quiver of unspent quarrels before the dais, before tugging upon the rope wound 'round one gloved hand like a leash ‘til his bloody prize came forward.  He pushed the man to his knees with an ungentle hand upon wounded shoulder.  The man's harsh exclamation of pain only half-masked the chorus of horrified gasps at such unsightliness brought before the eyes of the mortal court and the delicate sensibilities of its nobles. “And still, I bring him to you breathing, rather than spilling his wretched life where I found it, for my King demands that_ we _, at least, abide by the word of the Accord.”_

_“Peace, my Darkness,” the Unseelie King interjected, halfway between placation and command, his voice ringing with authority and reaching every ear though he did not deign to raise it, silken as the insidious whispers of shadows. His expression remained as capriciously blank as a mirror as his most valued servant stepped respectfully aside to permit the diminutive sovereign unobstructed view of both the Throne and the would-be assassin--who had gone whiter still at the faery King's approach--but despite Oswald’s politic demeanour, his pale eyes were lit from within with icy green fire._

_“My Lord Zsasz is correct. We have stood by the letter of the Peace between us, coming here at great risk to our person and the members of our Court, as has her Majesty the Queen. Is this the reception we may receive upon your invitation in future, King Thomas?” Oswald queried, his tone brought to the feather-thin edge of a blade in the dark behind its smooth, courtly veneer._

_The Seelie Queen remained as grave as her counterpart, but her eyes shone with sharp amusement. She seemed content to hold her silence for the time being and let Oswald have the floor, though she was sure to exact the cost of such indulgence of his love of the sound of his own voice at a later date._

_She listened with half an ear as Oswald twisted the mortal king upon the insidiously barbed machinery of one of his famously verbose and intricate speeches. His cunning and incisiveness were matched only by the poisoned honey of his tongue as he exacted the price of the villain’s life in addition to the yearly_ Kynge's Teind _that lay as yet unpaid between them, in recompense for the insult of the crude assassination attempt. It_ had _lent a bit of intrigue to the procession as the Unseelie complement had met with Barbara's own retinue at the appointed place on the border of Seelie-held Oldtown, but had also had the unfortunate side-effect of ruffling the King's--and their respective Queens- and Kingsguard's--rather unforgiving feathers._

_Zsasz, Oswald's widely-feared King's Own and Lord of the Wild Hunt in his own right, had held a quick conference of glances with the present contingent of Kingsguard, as they had clustered defensively around their sovereign in the startling wake of one of their number nearly being unhorsed by an unlooked-for crossbow quarrel to the shoulder._

_Zsasz had looked briefly to his Seelie counterpart, Tabitha, who had answered with a sharp nod and silently assumed command of both Kings- and Queensguard even as the King's Own wheeled his destrier around and called the hounds of the Hunt to him with an airy whistle._

_As Oswald spoke, Barbara assessed the assemblage of richly-appointed courtiers who had thronged to gawk at the seemingly united front of Faerie that had condescended to call upon their mortal rulers. She noted the curious mixture of awe, calf-eyed worshipfulness, lust, wariness, or outright fear and antipathy that shone upon the faces of those in attendance, suppressing a private smile when she caught Tabitha and Zsasz exchanging a subtly bored glance at the long-windedness of courtly pleasantries._

_At last, Barbara sensed a natural lull in the exchange and smoothly stepped in to hook a hand in the bend of Oswald's arm and steer the formal ‘niceties’ to their natural conclusion, suggesting a brief adjournment to recover from the day's excitements and much to attend to in preparation for the coming festivities._

_Thomas's wife, Queen Martha, seized gratefully upon the opening afforded her, to reiterate her husband's welcome and declare that their royal guests be wearied not a moment longer, and shown at once to the apartments that had been made ready for them._

+

It was in the thinning hours before dawnslight, when the mortal royals had at long last sought their beds and the faery courtiers retired to their own amusements, that Jim was finally discharged from his duties. He gamely accepted the cup of wine Harvey pressed upon him, the heady vintage having been rationed out to even those of lower rank in the spirit of the holiday. It was heavy and strange upon his tongue, the colour of old blood or garnets and tasting of spice and smoke, of secrets and dark earth.

He ducked beneath the comradely circle of his partner's arm when talk turned to a game of dice the Tower guard were running, uninterested in losing what little he had to spare after the month's expenses, and dead on his feet. “Peace, Harvey,” Jim said, in the face of his partner's protests that the night was yet in the bloom of her youth, “another time.”

Having left Harvey to it, the knight made for the stables, taking pause in a deserted corridor beside a faded tapestry depicting some half-forgotten victory of a bygone age to tear at the fastenings on the much-hated ruff, cursing under his breath whatever featherbrained noble had originated the fashion for something so entirely ridiculous and uncomfortable. He was startled from his oaths and ineffectual fumblings by a quiet huff of amusement, near enough to make him startle.

+

Jim felt his colour rise, cheeks flaming with heat as long, cool fingers insinuated themselves beside his own and deftly worked the fastenings of the ruff, freeing him from the confines of starched lace as mocking dark eyes caught and held his own.

“How came you by such a scar?” The faery leaned close, fascinated, even as his hands withdrew, leaving Jim holding the offending ruff with his breath caught in his chest at such brazen proximity.

Jim turned from the long-fingered hand that rose to hover curiously above the linear scar that neatly skirted the edge of his right eye, bisecting his cheek and curling ever so slightly below the edge of his jawline, stepping back out of reach. His heart pounded from revulsion or anticipation; he was uncertain which. “A Turkish Emir glanced me a lucky blow with his sabre.” He had been fortunate that it had landed only shallowly, and to have escaped with but a scar to show for it; he might easily have forfeited an eye, or his life.

“And what became of this...Emir?” There was an interest, a _hunger_ in those dark eyes that dragged a chill along Jim's spine like the tip of a blade. “Did you kill him?”

“Yes.” The Turk's _shamshir_ and horseheaded dagger had been amongst the modest spoils in the small chest of personal effects to accompany Jim on his voyage home, neatly wrapped in cloth and hidden away, for he had been unable as yet to face them.

Already his nights were restless, sleep driven beyond his reach by the circling curs of the past. What dreams he recalled upon waking from scant hours of rest thieved from the unyielding grasp of Morpheus on the worst nights were writ in red: the bitterburnt gold-red of sunpunished sand; the unstrung coppercrusted limbs of field upon field of men gone to carrion; the shrill, tormented prayers and oaths of the forsaken as they paid the cost of the vainglories of loftier, softhanded men with the bitter coin of their lifeblood, far from the embrace of the dark northern soil that made them.

Jim returned to himself to find he was being studied shamelessly, the faery having made no comment but a curl at the edge of pale lips suggesting a _satisfaction_ with his answer that made the knight's guts twist queerly.


	7. The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The knight kept his ignorance to himself, resolving to ask Harvey about it later, even as he jealously admired the shape of Victor’s milkwhite hands as they curved to the mare’s cheeks, the way the faery leaned close to share her air, the ease of his gladness at having her near. He hated himself for foolishly begrudging a dumb beast the fairhandedness of her master, even as he was dogged to breathlessness by the hounds of his own, ungenteel dreams._
> 
> _How was it that they had met but twice, and briefly, and already Jim felt as fast-caught as a rabbit within a tripped snare?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn. After _much_ ado, another installment. 
> 
> Apologies for the wait, and a thousand thanks to anyone who has been following this strange tale for your immense patience. My life does not leave much time for creative pursuits right now, and I am juggling two multichapters, but rest assured, this piece has _not_ been abandoned. I fully intend to get this where it is ultimately going, though it may take a while for it to get there. Bear with me.
> 
> Special thanks to FC, for whom this was written, and who has been waiting oh so politely for the next update. This is for you, my friend. 
> 
> And look, finally a taste of that promised darkness.
> 
> Comments are love.

VII.

The north is thine; there hast thou built thy dark  
\-- _To Winter_ , William Blake

\+ + +

The predawn air bit at Jim’s cheeks with teeth of glass, the torchlight gilding the bitter wind skirling in off the neatly set stones overlooking the interior Tower gardens that had been ceded to the Faerie King’s use.  He watched Victor lean upon the whitedusted ledge of the battlement with the deliberate grace of a predator, quailing inwardly at the eagerness with which he met the liquid dark gaze that cut toward him, once again held captive by the edge of that unearthly stare. 

Jim felt himself flush with unwanted heat as the faery studied him with uncommon openness.  The flame of curiosity was bright in those ageless, inscrutable eyes, though the pale features which Jim had seen in silverquick shift from menace to amusement were set in an impassable solemnity that was as much to blame for the shiver that knifed along his spine as the sudden, swift blade of midwinter wind striking unerringly for his marrow.

The queerly companionable wordlessness that had fallen between them as they wandered from the less-traveled, labyrinthine corridors of the Tower to the stables, before moving on from the warmth of that close, earthy-sweet dimness to venture out onto the walls above, was as fraught with potential as struck flint, their shared regard across the bright buzz of the crowded hall, the glancing brush of their fingertips with the passing of the apple.

The knight startled at the weight of the cloak that settled unexpectedly upon his shoulders, the faery standing unaffected by the bitter air in his courtly finery after having clasped the finespun, heavy wool neatly at Jim’s throat and stepped gracefully back out of reach, expression as opaque as virgin parchment.

When Victor turned for the torchlit curve of a stone archway leading to a steeply cut stair that spiraled dizzyingly toward the gardens below, Jim found himself helpless against the powerful urge to _follow_.  The piled snow muffled their steps as they descended, the faery’s impossibly light, swift tread making no sound, the knight trailing a few paces behind despite his own misgivings, drawn along in Victor's wake as though bound fast by some invisible length of thread pulled inescapably taut by an unseen hand across the scant distance between them.

When the stairway opened out onto the cold-bright splendour of the frost-silvered gardens, Jim found himself rooted in place upon the lowermost step as Victor stepped out into the cold spill of moonlight without so much as a backwards glance, some low voice of warning behind the knight’s bones holding him fast from making tracks where the denizens of Faerie gathered in shining assembly with no mark of their passing, even as his gaze marked Victor’s progress across the white-mantled earth toward his unearthly kin with a queer pang of longing. 

+

_The lowlit closeness of the royal stables was a welcome balm upon coldbitten mortal cheeks, Jim having quite forgotten to retrieve his cloak before allowing himself to be led out a side door into the brittle air of the open courtyard, the gaze of the halfmoon above offering no succour in its borrowed light._

_Victor’s pale visage was a beacon in the dimness, the faery striding purposefully down the darkened aisle ‘til his progress was arrested by an imperious whicker to his left.  He extended a hand to cup the velvet muzzle that materialized as though cut wholecloth from the darkness itself to nuzzle insistently at his side, fingers sliding tenderly along the underside of a whiskery chin and up along the line of the mare’s jaw to land upon the powerful curve of her neck.  
_

_Jim felt oddly intrusive as Victor spoke quietly to her in a queer tongue, uncaring of the way the beast shamelessly mussed his fine cloth in her questing for treats.  He was struck by the faery’s unexpectedly gentle way with the creature, bred for war and tourney, but so plainly doted upon._

_He contrasted it ruefully with his relationship with his own tempestuous mount, the contrary beast taking every opportunity to kneecap him or tread upon his toes, or upon occasions of_ particular _moment, wedging Jim against the wall of the stables with his side and pinning him there indefinitely as he went about his breakfast, the knight’s oaths and efforts to budge him before he was well and ready to move falling upon selectively deaf, dismissively flicking ears._

_When the mare was satisfied that Victor had not, indeed, come bearing gifts, she huffed her disapproval and turned her large, liquid eyes upon Jim, dark ears pricked forward with renewed hopefulness._

_“I've nothing, I’m afraid,” Jim offered as she breathed warmly upon his hand, turning it over to display his empty palm, which she investigated thoroughly before scenting his cheek and nosing brazenly at his hair, eliciting an unexpected chuckle from Victor and startling a laugh from Jim despite himself.  “What’s her name?” he asked, feeling halfway silly to spend a question so frivolously, but truly curious. He laid a tentative hand on her neck, feeling the smooth, well-kept closeness of her coat, her flesh exuding heat like a brand against his chilled fingers._

_“Mhór,” Victor answered with no small measure of fondness, the mare twitching her ears toward him at the sound of her name, but still busying herself with her inspection of Jim, having moved on to investigating every inch of his tunic as though it might magically yield a plentitude of apples if only she willed it so with perfectly focused intent.  “She would gladly have drowned me when first I caught her.” The bright blade of his smile in the dimness was one the knight would gladly have fallen upon, if only for the keeping of it._

_"Caught her?"_

_"She's a kelpie," the faery replied, as though that explained everything.  Perhaps it did, and Jim was just, as it so often seemed, in the dark._

_The knight kept his ignorance to himself, resolving to ask Harvey about it later, even as he jealously admired the shape of Victor’s milkwhite hands as they curved to the mare’s cheeks, the way the faery leaned close to share her air, the ease of his gladness at having her near.  Jim hated himself for foolishly begrudging a dumb beast the fairhandedness of her master, even as he was dogged to breathlessness by the hounds of his own, ungenteel dreams._

_How was it that they had met but twice, and briefly, and already Jim felt as fast-caught as a rabbit within a tripped snare?_

+

Midwinter fires blazed high within the circled dance of the eerily solemn assemblage of courtiers Unseelie and Seelie alike, the hush of anticipation weighing the air as surely as the heavy stillness of the snow that now and then feathered damply from the battlements above, having grown too thick to support itself beneath the skies’ unyielding onslaught.

The knight watched, barely daring to breathe as the unspeaking revelers fairly hummed with waiting, marking the measured approach of their King from the thicket of bare-armed trees opposite with the turning of everyoung faces as flowers toward the lifegiving gaze of the sun.

Behind the King came two of his Kingsguard, with a third, sorry figure caught neatly between them, struggling fruitlessly against the implacable grip of the hooded, leatherclad women as they drew him along, only the captive mortal leaving any mark upon the virgin snowfall behind them.  In their wake followed another pair of two more of their order, the sorrier prize of a gangling wastrel sagging listlessly between them, insensate with fear and malnourishment, and shivering fitfully in the thin convict’s rags that barely covered his nakedness.  Who knew how long it had been since the wretch had last glimpsed the sky, or tasted of the free air.

Victor met them at the centre of the circle, his stride and bearing seamlessly marrying pride and deference as he drew up short before his sovereign and sketched a graceful bow, then accepted the curved, bejewelled dagger one of the Kingsguard passed him with the ease of a dance long-practiced. 

The bright song of the dagger leaving its sheath hung thinly upon the air, the blade a living flame within the faery’s hand, which Jim abruptly realize was ungloved, the ransom of gems weighing the silver rings upon his fingers glimmering as the weapon turned within his grasp.  Victor held the weapon low at his side, catching his king’s gaze before turning toward the approach of his kin and their first, recalcitrant guest, the very same would-be assassin that he himself had brought before King Thomas and all his mortal court earlier.

The mortal’s shoulder injury had been seen-to in the intervening hours, and roughly bandaged.  It was the shoulder that the King’s Own Darkness now grasped again with ungentle fingers, all the better to draw the mortal toward the swift progress of the knife.

Victor hushed the man almost tenderly as the dagger found purchase in his breast, breathless protests dying stillborn upon split and swollen lips.  A near-deafening crack split the anticipatory stillness as an expert, inhumanly strong twist of the blade neatly saw the breastbone parted in halves, the mortal’s chest opening like a cruel flower to spill its bitterdark lifeblood upon the bright snow at their feet even as the white hand unoccupied by the dagger sank past the ruin of rag and bone, deep into the cavern below to wrest forth the prize of the man’s still-quivering heart.


	8. Thou art not so unkind / As man's ingratitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The knight came out into a privy courtyard, the perfect white stillness of it broken by his untidy breaths, the blue gauze of them hanging upon the air not unlike the smoke of the midwinter flames whose terrible appetites he sought to outrun. He paused a moment, to regain himself, but the dry shifting of branches in a sigh of wind dogged him back into his flight like a beast pursued, as if he might outpace the spectre of his own desire._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it has been an absolute _age_ since I posted anything--though to be honest, I have had this chapter fairly well roughed out for a while, I just hadn't had time to give it a hard look and whip it into something halfway decent. Waking up in the middle of the night like a crazy person gave me a couple of hours to spend trimming the loose threads and at last concluding that it's as good as it's getting, so. Thanks, insomnia. 
> 
> Apologies for being devoured by RL drama and working myself into the ground the past few months, and thanks for sticking with me, you few darlings who are still hanging around, hoping for more of this. Things should be cooling off a bit work-wise for me, so fingers crossed I am hoping to be back to a more regular updating schedule in the near future.
> 
> Much love to FC for being particularly patient with me in the long lulls between updates. This is for you, my dear. I hope it passes muster. <3
> 
> Comments are love, as always.

VIII.

Thou art not so unkind  
As man’s ingratitude;  
_\--Blow, blow, thou winter wind_ , William Shakespeare

\+ + +

Once-lively embers had gone low and sullen in the hearth, red-edged shadows having grown long with the teeth of the hour.  Time and again, Jim’s fingers sought the dense, finely woven wool he kept neatly folded within the battered chest that had seen his belongings to the Holy Land and back again, aligned neatly with the foot of the small bed in which he so rarely slept, of late. 

The knight had found himself reaching for the cloak often over the drear, interminable stretch of days-turned-months since the faery delegation’s departure, drawing the garment to rest beside him upon the roughspun bedclothes on the nights he dared succumb to dreams, or tucking it across his knee when driven by sleeplessness to his favoured seat before the fire, tracing the brocaded pattern of black-on-black hounds, ravens in flight, and windstruck autumn leaves adorning the hood’s edge like a touchstone in its wearer’s absence. 

 _As if he would return to claim it_ , a fell voice in the back of his mind murmured, filling Jim with a queer blend of longing, remembered horror, and fear.  Fear of _what_ , he did not entirely know; fear that he would never see Victor again, perhaps, or fear that he _would_.

+

 _The offering of flesh glistened and steamed in the brittle air, held aloft before the Winter King even as his servant dropped to one knee, head bowed humbly as he presented the_ Kynge’s Teind _before his dreadlord as he had every Midwinter’s Turning since his King’s bitterly won Ascension and his own subsequent appointment to the command of the Kingsguard.  
_

My knife in the dark, my Own Darkness _, the newmade King had then intoned with all the weight of a prayer, and his servant had burned with pride unmatched before or since, though it was echoed in the yearly ritual of watching small, whitesharp teeth sink again into the fruit of the offered bloodprice, thus ensuring the turn of the Wheel, the passing of the sceptre of Winter to Spring and the sown seeds of another boundless Summer and fruitful Harvest in the months to follow after._

+

Jim had at first kept the cloak out in the open, until Harvey had seen fit to follow him home from the _Garland_ after a particularly rough case, spurred by the promise of the flagon Jim kept tucked aside for just such an occasion, and the desire of neither man to be left to the circling demons of his own thoughts just yet. 

His partner had been intrigued by the presence of so fine a thing in Jim’s sorry little garret, draped with care over the rough stool by the bedside.  He’d ribbed Jim about it as potential evidence of a woman, and going by the quality of the cloth, one of considerable coin, at that.  Curiosity was not to be the knight’s ally, however, when Harvey yielded to its siren song in reaching to unfold the cloak to reveal more of the intricate black-on-black brocade trim, inadvertently baring the winking dusk-violet gem in its cunningly wrought setting of silver ravens to the ruddy kiss of the hearthlight.

“What in the name of the Seven Hells is _this_ , Jim?” he’d demanded, and Jim had flushed, abandoning the flagon and cups he had been setting out in favour of snatching the cloak from Harvey’s grasp, folding it with haste and tucking it away from his partner’s prying, if glassy, gaze.  He could feel the heat in his face, cursing the inheritance of his mother’s complexion.

“It’s _nothing_ ,” Jim demurred, causing his partner to mutter darkly with a look in his eye that said the topic was _far_ from tabled, though he would briefly suspend hostilities in deference to the promise of the full cup that Jim swiftly pressed upon him, hoping against hope that enough of the same would see his partner sufficiently distracted to spare himself the worst of the impending tirade.

“ _‘Nothing’_ , he says, like he’s not got a badge of the _Unseelie throng_ laying around in plain sight of the Almighty and all his better angels,” Harvey groused, when he had quaffed the better portion of his cup and sourly held it out for a top-up.  “How came ye by it in the first place, and what in _God’s_ name are ye still _doing_ with it, Jim?  Not that same Unseelie bastard I warned ye to stay clear of?  Better to have chucked it in the river and have done with it than risk its former _wearer_ finding their way back to you.”

The knight leaned in to replenish his partner’s cup which had indeed, again, found itself empty.   Leaning back, he paused with his own cup halfway to his lips, tone carefully neutral. “Is that...possible?”

“Sweet Christ, lad, how should _I_ know?  _Nothing’s_ beyond the realm of possibility with the Folk, s’why it’s best to steer clear and keep your nose clean, like I’ve been _telling_ you.”  Aghast, Harvey grumbled into his cup about 'consorting with the faeries' and reached across the table to brazenly help himself to his partner's quickly dwindling flagon.

Taking a measured sip of his wine, Jim nodded dutifully, though inwardly he entertained a small thrill of foreboding at the thought of being _found_ , even for so trifling a thing as the return of a jewel.

+

_Though the second man gibbered breathlessly, he made no cry when Victor’s blade found its mark, seemingly overtaken by the strange stillness of his surroundings, the only sound the twig-brittle give of bone and the rushing of Jim's blood in his ears.  
_

_Jim watched the smoke of the bonfire weave sinuous sigils upon the air, the body of the first sacrifice consumed as surely as the would-be assassin’s heart had been by the Winter King, who accepted the second offering his servant held before him with a grace ill-suited to the gore staining his deceptively frail hand.  Slim fingers closed over Victor’s longer, equally bloody ones with a maddening slowness, their eyes locked as Oswald pressed the still-hot flesh to his red-stained mouth and the second corpse was relegated to the bright embrace of the flames._

_Jim’s guts churned at the unholy spectacle, at odds with a low, terrible frisson envy as the King’s dripping, empty hand finally unfurled to mar the whiteness of Victor’s cheek with a swathe of scarlet like some tender, arcane baptism._

+

Jim worried at the memory like a fraying thread as his fingers once more sought the fine wool of the cloak and the cool shape of the jeweled brooch that had seen it held fast around the knight’s neck by those white hands, obscured neatly within the heavy folds for safekeeping.  The remembered boldness of the Unseelie King’s palm on Victor’s cheek, how it spoke to a bond well past that of mere vassal and sovereign, stung at him like nettles, though he knew he was hardly entitled to such envy, and of a _king_ , no less.

He drew his hand back abruptly from worrying at the brooch-pin, staring at the bright bead of blood that welled upon his fingertip in the wake of his careless handling.

+

_Upon watching Victor turn his cheek so easily into his king’s bloody caress, Jim found his feet at last, and fled._

_His steps resounded along the stone corridor leading off of the base of the stair, back into the bowels of the Tower.  He followed it blindly, feeling overhot and strange, skin ill-fitting and electrified, the beat of his heart trembling his bones like the aftermath of a too-close bell and deafening him to all else._

_The knight came out into a privy courtyard, the perfect white stillness of it broken by his untidy breaths, the blue gauze of them hanging upon the air not unlike the smoke of the midwinter flames whose terrible appetites he sought to outrun.  He paused a moment, to regain himself, but the dry shifting of branches in a sigh of wind dogged him back into his flight like a beast pursued, as if he might outpace the spectre of his own desire._

_So consumed was he by his escape that as he pushed past the heavy fall of tapestry on the far side of a small anterior door that opened in off the courtyard, he stepped blindly into the path of another coming on at a brisk pace, the impact of bodies unexpectedly attempting to occupy the same space punctuated by a cry of alarm, a heavy case falling from the other’s shoulder and overturning to the tinny shimmer of glass upon stone.  
_

_Jim found himself at a loss as both parties straightened back to a proper distance, apology stillborn on his lips when the hood of the pristine robes of the Healer’s Guild fell back to reveal a face of perfect loveliness framed by neatly upbound dark waves and set with a pair of arresting dark eyes._


	9. And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is SPRING

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The elusive wisps of dream still clung to him, the breathlessness of pursuit tightening his lungs, the taste of triumph upon his stilted breath, the phantom hands of it so _real_ as to yet brand his sides. 
> 
> Until the hands stirred, and shifted, dissipating the phantom of pale smirking mouth and dancing dark eyes as Jim turned in the circle of small arms to meet the sleepy warmth of the pair of eyes rather more immediately to hand; equally dark, yet despite the seeming similarity, quite different entirely.
> 
> “Good morrow.” The smile would have been evident in her voice, even had he not borne witness to it. She took pause. “It’s _freezing_ in here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After much ado, another chapter! I promise this piece has not been abandoned, I was just caught up in the end of summer madness, and then with driving a thousand miles south to my winter digs, so...life has been hectic, but. I think I am settling back into my autumn/winter swing of things, and should be able to finally get back to a more normal writing and updating schedule? No promises, but...fingers crossed.
> 
> Many thanks to FC, who has been ever so patiently awaiting the next installment of this. It has been slow going, but there will be more to come (hopefully sooner rather than later). <3
> 
> Please let me know if y'all spot any glaring errors; I gave it a good going over (or several), but I am still not 100% that I nipped all of the loose threads; feeling a bit rusty, but eager to get back in the saddle and move forward with this, if you'll pardon my mixed metaphors.
> 
> Comments are love.

_Fresh spring the herald of loves mighty king,_  
 _In whose cote armour richly are displayed_  
 _All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring_  
 _In goodly colours gloriously arrayd:_  
 _Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,_  
 _Yet in her winters bowre not well awake:_  
 _Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid_  
 _Unless she doe him by the forelock take._  
 _Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,_  
 _To wayt on love amongst his lovely crew:_  
 _Where every one that misseth then her make,_  
 _Shall be by him amearst with penance dew._  
 _Make hast therefore sweet love, whilest it is prime,_  
 _For none can call againe the passèd time._  
  
\-- _Amoretti LXX_ , Sir Edmund Spenser  
  
\+ + +

IX.

O, the snow it melts the soonest when the winds begin to sing;  
And the swallow skims without a thought as long as it is SPRING:  
\-- _The Snows They Melt the Soonest_ , Traditional

\+ + +

The dregs of winter had dragged its heels, biding its time before succumbing to the slow greening of the newmade year.  The snow had sung its silver dirges as it went to meltwater, dripping from the eaves and parapets to shiver the necks of hurrying passers-by with its chill lamentations. 

It was the dawning of Eastre, the traditional passing of the torch of influence between the Courts of Faerie, when the long dark of winter and the coming light of summer shared the day in equal measure; the first of the great market days by which the Gothamites set their calendars.  The gutters were heavy with old leaves, newly revealed; the smell of rebirth sharpened air redolent with thawing decay.  The trees lining the broad thoroughfares of Gotham had pinkened with swelling buds and the first early blossoms, their grey arms garlanded with green ribbons by superstitious smallfolk in readiness for the upcoming festivities of the Maiden’s Day Faire. 

Spring was afoot, and the city welcomed its waking.

+

Jim lay yet abed, the fire in the modest hearth of the garret room long since gone to ash and ember, the lingering breath of winter upon the air driving him yet more deeply beneath the bedclothes and the weight of the black cloak piled atop the layered blankets for added warmth.  He had woken with the previous bell, and contemplated the merits of simply remaining where he was, finding the prospect of rising to face the brittle morning air and the coming day too daunting to contemplate.

The elusive wisps of dream still clung to him, the breathlessness of pursuit tightening his lungs, the taste of triumph upon his stilted breath, the phantom hands of it so _real_ as to yet brand his sides. 

Until the hands stirred, and shifted, dissipating the phantom of pale smirking mouth and dancing dark eyes as Jim turned in the circle of small arms to meet the sleepy warmth of the pair of eyes rather more immediately to hand; equally dark, yet quite different entirely for all their similarity to the gaze that bedeviled his dreams.

“Good morrow.”  The smile would have been evident in her voice, even had he not borne witness to it.  She took pause.  “It’s _freezing_ in here.”

“Apologies.”  Jim thumbed the lush curve of her lower lip, carding a sword-roughened hand through the snare of her hair as he leaned to kiss her.  He admired the unbound shadowspun waves framing her face, the redness of her mouth and dewy flush of her skin in pale contrast. He felt a swell of sentiment for her, even as he wondered at the fickleness of his own heart, that it could halve itself so readily, and quite without his say-so.  “Perhaps we might adjourn to _your_ place, in future?”

“If you fancy waking in the midst of a lion’s den of gossiping healers,” she replied with a wolfish grin.  “They won’t bite--much.”

“Perhaps not,” he said with a laugh, then winced at the sounding of the bell marking the third quarter of the hour, groaning inwardly.

She leaned in to kiss him again, then drew back to fix him with an impish look before turning to reach over the side of the bed to retrieve her healer’s robes, drawing the bedclothes with her and leaving him suddenly, painfully awake in the crisp spill of air that crowded into the distance between them.

He hooked a hand around her waist, tumbling her back into the pillows in a tangle of chilled skin and homespun linen, pressing close to siphon her warmth and steal a kiss from her laughing mouth.

Their tardiness would be well worth the dressing-down he would receive from his partner in recompense.

+

_"You're not with the faery delegation," she remarked with bemusement as he bent to help her gather the contents of the case she had been carrying, her dark eyes puzzled as she marked the jeweled badge of the Unseelie Court holding the borrowed cloak close at Jim's throat.  “And you haven’t the air of one of their thralls or foundlings… How came you by such a device?”_

_"Long story," the knight demurred, reaching for a smile though by the stiffness of his facial muscles it was surely more of a grimace.  Their hands crossed briefly in gathering an array of mostly intact phials from the stones, spared the worst of the initial impact by their protective casing and only scattering when that had overturned, though there were a few, she noted, that would need to be replaced._

_“One I would love to hear,” she said, pausing with a look of chagrin, as if belatedly realizing her own forwardness, and the resonant emptiness of the dimly lit corridor around them, shadows heavy with the blue hour before dawnslight.  Her face lit with a rueful smile. “That is, should fate conspire our paths to cross again, perhaps at a more...civilized hour, when I am not duty-bound to have been elsewhere a half-bell ago.”_

_“Of course; apologies,” Jim said, charmed by her refreshing lack of pretension, and her beauty.  “For keeping you, and, well. For not looking where I was going.”_

_“Not at all; glad to be of service in breaking your fall,” she jested, just to watch the colour rise in his face, though she sobered at once as the bell to mark the hour sounded.  “I really must be going.”_

_It was only in the gathering chill in the wake of her departure, the fading sound of her brisk footsteps mingling with the grey aftersong of bells, that Jim realized he had not had enough wits about him to inquire after her name._

+

“Will you not tell me the story behind it?” she ventured curiously when they had dressed, tracing a hand over the edge of the cloak.  Her tone lacked the judgment and disdain that Harvey might have injected into the query, threaded instead with a genuine curiosity and interest that was far harder to evade.

“Lee--”  The midmorning bells broke in upon whatever sorry deflection he might have mustered, much to his relief.

Her gaze reflected a flicker of disappointment, the twist to her mouth rueful.  “Another time, then.”

Jim’s smile was apologetic, his movements briskly decisive as he folded the cloak away into the depths of the wooden chest, then reached for his sword.  “Another time.”

She frowned.  “Are we yet to meet at the Faire, anon?”

“Of course.  As soon as I’m free of my duties.”  Jim smiled, and raised her hand to press a kiss to her palm. 

The furrow of worry from between her dark brows lessened as she unsuccessfully suppressed a smile, charmed despite herself.

Jim guiltily stamped out a tendril of curiosity as to which representatives of the immortal courts might be in attendance at the upcoming festivities, even as he stole a last, sweet kiss from her lips as a charm against the day.


End file.
